


DwtF - drabbles

by ShadowThorne



Series: Dinner with the Family [2]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Blood and Gore, M/M, Violence, idk i'll put better and more appropriate warnings on individual chapters/drabbles, mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2019-11-06 07:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17935322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowThorne/pseuds/ShadowThorne
Summary: Just like the title says! A series of random drabbles set in my Dinner with the Family AU. Warnings specific to the individual drabble will be included at the top of each chapter.





	1. drabble one -part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some of these might be reposts from my tumblr, some of them might not be. A few of them were meant to be part of a different portion of the series, so they may eventually show up as scenes in other DwtF installments, but for the most part, this is likely where they'll stay.

This first one is part of a three part drabble based off a prompt given to me on tumblr. It is NOT actually part of the regular DwtF timeline, it 's like an AU of my AU............. I guess. But it was fun to write! I can never resist hurting my favorite character.

WARNINGS: violence, blood, kidnapping, torture.  
If I miss something, or you want something tagged/warned a specific way, please let me know! All that being said, it's not any worse than my usual, the warnings just make it sound bad.

 

 

 

 

 

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“Oh, Miss. Kuchiki called, Sir.” Ishida used a slim finger to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he walked. The halls were quiet as the mansion’s occupants began settling in after a day of hard work. 

Shirosaki nodded at the secretary’s side. His hands stuffed casually in his pockets, he walked with a calm, nonchalant air about him. “Excellent. Get somethin’ set up?”

“Yes, Sir.” Ishida nodded, “don Byakuya leaves for business in two days time. The only non-conflicting time we could find before the trip was lunch tomorrow afternoon.”

“Mm. His annual visit ta his late wife’s grave. I hear she rests in a beautiful countryside.” Shiro nodded like he understood and kicked his feet up as he walked. It was late and he was as tired and ready to call it a day as everyone else, “Where ‘re we meetin’ at?”

“Yes, I’ve heard so as well.” Ishida agreed, “That little diner downtown you like, at one pm.”

“Ahh, I’m gonna have ta get up early.” The don chuckled as they exited the side wing where his office was located and less illegal activities took place, and entered the rotunda at the entrance. The night outside was a warm one, quiet on this side of the city. The sun was just barely beginning to light the far horizon.

At his side, the smallest hint of amusement tilted Ishida’s thin lips, “Yes, Sir. I’ve taken the liberty of informing Dr. Granz not to keep you up too late.”

The colorless young man laughed outright at that and patted a heavy but friendly hand against the secretary’s shoulder.

Ishida glanced at him and affixed a firm expression across his features again, “Sir… do you really think it wise to meet with Mr. Kuchiki? There is still the matter of your enemies… You’ve extracted them from the mansion, at least as far as we can tell, but if this person is indeed of Aizen’s old family, he’ll not give up easily.”

Shiro laughed again, a wide grin slashing across his startling features. “That’s business, Ishida, I always have enemies.”

In the next heartbeat, Shirosaki’s words were proven true. There was a split second warning, where the sound of something thudding to the ground and bouncing against the main doors was loud enough to catch the don’s attention -his gold eyes slid that way- then glass and framework shattered in an inward spray and a cacophony of loud gunfire.

The don found himself on the ground, shoved hard from behind but the hand that caught between his shoulder blades and clutched at his suit wasn’t a familiar one. The weight that dropped on top of him was near suffocating in that moment; the force of the person’s momentum plus larger size. The next thing Shiro knew, he was being yanked around and he stared up at his ceiling for a brief, disoriented second.

The expensive, crystal chandelier that hung in his foyer swung precariously upon its chain, half of it blown away. Glass caught the flickering light all around him where it had rained down upon him and the polished tile floor he laid on. Somewhere to his right, Ishida groaned a not quite aware sound. He had half a second to take everything in, to begin collecting himself, before a hulking shadow blocked out the light above him.

Strange, gold on black eyes blinked, focused, then widened, but it wasn’t a gun or even a knife in his face.

“Client wants you alive.” Then the crack of knuckles meeting flesh.

Blood tasted thick in his mouth and his vision danced, but Shirosaki wasn’t new to fighting and he saw the second hit coming. “Fuck-” The rushed word fled on his harsh exhale. Blood sprayed in a fine mist from torn lips.

The don ducked as best he could, brought his arms and hands up. Dazed, he wasn’t quite quick enough to block the incoming fist, but he deflected most of its force. One hand found the inside of the culprit’s elbow, collapsing the arm, while Shiro used his free arm to take most of the force.

The man hovering over him half collapsed with the unexpected retaliation, his weight falling forward to further pin the don. Shiro brought a knee up between them, pressed against the man’s chest as he grappled for the enemy’s arms to stall the next shot to his face. He grunted under the strain, the adrenaline helping to clear the haze from his mind. Still, the edge of his vision danced black from that first strike.

Baring red teeth, he half snarled, half yelled, and shoved with all his strength. Unbalanced and losing his advantage, his attacker stumbled and was forced to disengage or fall to his ass. A wild swing clipped Shiro in the jaw, but it was enough to throw his head back. His skull met the floor in a very unpleasant way that had stars dancing before his eyes again.

The next thing he knew, he was nearly upright and there was an arm wrapped tight around his throat, cutting off his air. He choked as the man behind him started dragging him backward, crossing the threshold of his home. Glass crunched and scrapped under their feet and his vision darkened in a nauseating flicker of greys and over saturated colors.

The don bared teeth, hands prying at the stranger’s forearm as a hint of desperation and panic crept through his mind. They nearly tripped going down the stairs at the front entrance and Shiro took the opportunity to drive an elbow back into his attacker’s ribcage. The grunt behind him proved that the stranger felt it, but the arm around his neck didn’t let up. 

Shiro wedged his hand behind himself, reaching for his gun. The moment he pulled it free, a hand caught his wrist. He pulled the trigger anyway, letting the weapon go off beside his head. The sound echoed through the night, bouncing off the brick of his mansion and left a ringing in both of their ears.

He swore he heard his favored hitman’s voice, heard Ichigo yelling his name but the explosion had destroyed the front lighting system and in the dark he couldn’t see the handler. Nor could he get enough air to call to his friend.

After another moment of struggle, he found that he’d lost his gun, his hands wrapped around the arm cutting off his oxygen again. He couldn’t remember letting the weapon fall from his grasp.

The last thing he heard was the latch of a car door as he sagged further against the body behind him, senses cutting in and out. 

––––

Grimmjow and Ichigo scrambled across shattered glass and disheveled tile. Ishida lay still on one side of the rotunda, thrown up against the wall adjacent the door and back toward the hallway he’d been leaving. Shiro was no where to be seen but there was a trail of scrape marks and scuffs through the debris, leading toward what was left of the exit.

Ichigo hauled ass out onto the front staircase, yelling his friend’s name as a gunshot ripped through the strange, heavy silence that followed the explosion. He automatically flinched back, training and experience telling him to expect a hail of lead, before he reversed the momentum and started to sprint forward, taking the concrete stairs three and four at a time until his feet hit the walkway that rested between the drive and the mansion. Grimmjow caught at his arm, hissing his name; it was dark, there were men in their home, their yard, who knew what kind of mess they were stepping into and who was firing at who. But Ichigo silenced him with a sharp hiss, “That was Shiro’s gun-!”

“How can y-”

“I know the sound of it, Grimmjow, that was his.” The boss’s favorite gun, the one he carried with him everywhere. He’d had that gun since he was a boy and Ichigo had helped him learn how to shoot with it. 

And when the handler got something into his head, he was as bad as or worse than Grimmjow. He bolted out into the yard, his hunter on his heals. 

Tires screeched in the dark and Ichigo pointed his gun. He emptied the entire chamber, rage lighting his features, but the boss was in that car. He couldn’t aim for anything that could make a difference, so his shots peppered the bumper in some desperate but vain attempt to do something. 

Grimmjow and Ichigo watched as taillights shrank into the distance, panic dulling their usual fast reactions, before Grimmjow turned and roared for a car to be brought around.

––––

Shiro woke up to an ache in his jaw and the sharp burn of too-tight rope around his wrists. The taste of old blood filled his mouth and he spit it out on the floor in front of him; carpet, he noted, the kind found in houses, not office buildings. The space smelled like fresh paint.

“Where are your manners, Mr. Ogichi?” A voice asked from somewhere behind him.

His voice was rough when he spoke, despite the usual lilt. “Left ‘em behind. You didn’t gimme the chance ta grab ‘em when you decided ta break inta my home.” He didn’t bother attempting to spin to find the speaker, sneering where he hung his head. His pulse throbbed in a ring around the front of his neck. “Why don’t you lead by example and get this rope offa me ya fuckin’ coward, treat me with some god damn respect.”

His captor chuckled, “I can see you’re not used to being the victim, Mr. Og–”

Shiro interrupted that hard sound of his sir name with a displeased hiss of a warning.

“– After your upbringing, I’d have thought you would be better at this.”

“Don’t bring up old history,” Shiro snarled, “It’s unbecoming, pitiful, and least of all threatenin’.”

From behind him, the man drawled with subtle annoyance, “Thank you for the pointers.”

"My pleasure.” The don sneered and the stretch of his lips renewed the blood in his mouth. He curled his lip and spit it out on the floor between his feet. “Clearly you’re new ta threatenin’ people. Why don’t we switch seats and we’ll both be more comfortable.”

“As much as I’d love to make you more comfortable, I think it’d be a bit counterproductive.”

“Counterproductive ta what? All this chattin’ we’re doin’? You’re a terrible host.” Shiro pulled at the rope that bound him, testing the strength of it. His wrists were tied to the two back legs of a wooden chair, keeping them straight and forcing him to lean back.

“I’m starting to see why your father couldn’t stand you.”

At that, the don stiffened, half turning his head like he’d look over his shoulder finally, but not quite far enough to actually do so. Pale brows furrowed, more confusion than anger in the expression. He laughed through the conflicting things going on in his head, “You one a’ his? I thought I’d weeded all of ya outta the city a long time ago.”

The man didn’t answer him, continuing as if uninterrupted, “I can see the feeling was mutual, though. You wear a ring to show your status, but it’s not his. You can barely even stand sharing his name-”

“Cut out my tongue and spare me this small talk like ya got any form of decorum after marching through my front fuckin’ door you sniveling pile a’ shit.” Shiro interrupted, fury lighting his nerves and making the solid lines of his body rigid and tense.

His captor tsked like he was scolding a naughty child, “Then I’d have to fetch a pen and paper for you. Putting out your host makes you a bad guest.”

“Tch. You’re assumin’ I can read and write. I grew up a neglected rich boy, remember? Ain’t that the point you’re trying to make by draggin’ out all my skeletons?” There was nothing but sarcasm and bitter hatred in the don’s voice, directed at his captor and not. He wasn’t used to this side of things. He wasn’t used to not having a violent outlet to his anger, to being unable to physically take his aggression out on whoever happened to gain his ire. Nor was he used to people bringing up his father. Oh, they all knew of his old man and what happened to him, but it was impolite to speak of it. 

So he lashed out with words; all that was left to him at this point. “A dropout and failure. You seem like you should know this.” As an afterthought, “And we already established that I left my manners behind.”

“A law school dropout, Mr. Ogichi, you’re quite the businessman but you’re in no position to act like I’m stupid.”

“You must be stupid if you think you’re gonna walk away from this. You let me go now and they might go easy on ya.”

“Ah, yes. Your coworkers-”

“My coworkers!” Shiro’s laugh was tinted with a crazed glee, “Oh they’ll love that one. Yes. My coworkers, ya moron, happen ta be an entire mafia empire -did your client forget ta mention that?- and lets not forget my friends. You’ll be meetin’ them soon.”

“Mm.” The man hummed mildly, still hovering somewhere behind Shiro, just out of sight. “Mr. Kurosaki and Mr. Jeagerjaques. Amazing the police haven’t found that one yet, he’s not subtle. You’re pocketbook must be deep.”

Again Shiro paused, taken off guard by the odd depth of his captor’s knowledge. It was easy enough to dig up his work history, his dealings and his partners even, if one knew where and how to look. But this went beyond just the surface of what he was, this hinted at being too personal.

The don skewed up his features, “You know how he came ta be in my employ? He tried ta kill me and I offered him a job. You’re real good at what ya do, I can see that. I guarantee that I can pay you better than whoever’s writin’ that check.”

The man standing behind him chuckled again, as if entertaining a child. 

It grated on Shiro’s nerves and jerked on his bindings, more out of restless anger than any real attempt at getting free. “Am I supposed ta know you?” He finally asked, hissing the question out with suspicion. “What the hell d’you want from me?”

Finally the man moved and when he started walking, there was two sets of footsteps. A dark skinned man entered Shiro’s field of view. His hair was long and equally dark, pulled back neatly. A pair of dark glasses hid his eyes. At his side, a slim man with silvery hair led him forward, arm held out so that dark fingers could settle against his elbow. This one smiled in a wide slash of a grin that nearly closed his eyes.

“No,” The dark skinned one -the same that had been speaking before- said, “You don’t know us, Mr. Ogichi, but you will.”

Don Shiro glared his confusion and displeasure, eyes flickering between the two and the clench of his teeth making the ache in his jaw worse. He started to speak again, opened his mouth enough that the whiteness of his teeth showed for half a second, but whatever he’d intended to say died in a barely contained yelp. The knuckles that found his jaw at the nod given by the dark skinned man were sharp and hard. Shiro’s head was snapped around by the force of it and he stared at the wall and its fresh paint job through the wince that creased his momentarily stunned features. After a second, he pulled in a hissing breath and slowly turned back to his captors, jaw working for a moment before, in a low, dangerous voice, “You’re gonna make me cancel my plans tamorrow and I’m not gonna be happy.”

The hint of a smile creased his captor’s features, “Nonsense. We’ll be done chatting by then.”

Shiro sneered, blood staining his teeth, and strained forward against his bindings. “What the hell d’you want from me?” He shouted into the silence of the house around him.

If his outburst had any affect upon those holding him against his will, it didn’t show. “Nothing, Shirosaki. This isn’t business. There’s no deal to be made here, no trade that’s going to save your miserable hide. What we want, we already have.”

Finally, the one that had remained silent until then spoke up. His voice was a silvery chime just like the rest of him. “We want your suffering, friend.”

He saw the next hit coming, but had nowhere to go and tensing against it could only do so much. The crack of knuckles echoed in his ear. He spit the blood from his mouth at his captor’s feet, “You’re gonna regret this.”

“All this big talk. Where are your friends at, hm? They haven’t come for you.”

Shiro sneered, “They wil-“

But before he could make more promises, the silver haired man grabbed the flimsy wooden kitchen chair he’d been tied to and yanked on the upper portion while kicking in the opposite direction upon the lower portion. The chair, despite the mob boss’s weight to help hold it down, toppled sideways. Something crunched and ice slid along the nerves in the arm all his weight landed on, pinned below the wooden support of the chair. He had time for no more than a grunt of surprise before the heel of an expensive dress shoe found his exposed ribcage.

“I think you broke his arm already.” The dark skinned one said, unconcerned.

“Yeah. Heard that too.” The other chuckled, that grin splitting wider, “Didn’t mean to.”

Half a slight smirk tugged at the other’s features. “Might as well complete the look. Mr. Ogichi is all about style, after all.”

More chiming laughter accompanied the motion of Shiro’s chair being yanked around and rolled onto the back. Though certainly not comfortable, to say the least of it, the don still sneered and growled his hatred up at his captors. Even as the one hovering over him descended like a twisted wraith, even as the sharp snap of bone, sounding not unlike thin twigs, announced the break of each individual finger of his left hand -his pinky, his ring finger- Shiro issued and spit nothing but threats and rage. He yanked on his bindings and lurched in his seat -his middle and ring finger- squirming with the sharp pain as he tried in vain to free himself.

His silver lighter fell free of his pocket and the man hovering above him paused long enough to pick it up. After a second of digging through the don’s other pockets, he found the pack of cigarettes that went with it, resting one between his lips as he lit up. Blowing a puff of bluish smoke, he continued his work.

With no leverage, physically or otherwise, there was little for the don to do other than weather the harsh punishment. The men standing before him didn’t want his money or information. They didn’t want his men or the fall of his empire. What they wanted, they already had in the form of his agony and he had nothing sweeter to tempt them with as they beat him until words were impossible, until he could no longer catch his breath to make threats or promises or deals. Until he was reduced to pleading and even finding breath enough for that hurt.

When the cigarette between his abuser’s thin, grinning lips was nearly spent, it was put out against the front of his disheveled shirt. It burned an ugly hole through the silk and left another sting to layer with all the others.

At some point, he ended up free of the chair they’d tied him to. Whether he’d finally slipped his bindings in all his struggling or they’d done it themselves, he didn’t know. Rope still bit at his wrists but it was the very slightest of pains, in the back of his mind. He tried to find his feet and couldn’t, and when he slumped against the wall, sinking to his knees, he left a red smear to mix with the wet paint. The taste of blood was thick in his mouth, dripping down his chin to patter across the floor.

Out of nothing more than sheer luck and hard reflex, he deflected another fist that almost certainly would have knocked out teeth. When he threw up his arm and took the blow, bone ground sickeningly against bone and the room darkened in a flash of heat mixed with ice.

He blinked up a few seconds later to find that his head had been wrenched back, a fist in his hair keeping him mostly upright and on his knees. He cradled his messed up arm against his front, breathing in harsh, unhealthy pants.

“You think he’s had enough?” The man holding him asked. His iconic, white suit, so fear and awe inspiring amongst those who knew of don Shirosaki, was a blood-stained ruin, torn and disheveled. It showed every little blemish, every little spatter to prove of the mafia don’s misfortune. No doubt the man below matched two fold.

Shiro barely caught the words, but couldn’t process what was being said. In a feebly weak motion, he reached up to wrap bloodied fingers around the wrist of his attacker. There was no strength in the grip, let alone enough to make an effort to free himself of the hold.

Off to one side and out of the way, another voice, the first man to speak originally, “Seems he’s still got a little fight left.”

A silvery chuckle announced the swift snap of the fist in his hair and Shiro was thrown back against the wall before being allowed to collapse the rest of the way to the floor. He tried to get an arm under him, tried desperately to push himself from the floor, panting as blood dripped in thick tendrils from torn lips and bloodied nose. A shoe found the side of his ribcage, driving up hard enough to not only take his weight off the shaking limb almost holding him upright, but flip him over entirely. He rolled onto his back, gasping up at the blank ceiling. A bare lightbulb lit the space. A fixture had yet to be mounted over it to give the room a more inviting feel. 

He heard the snick of a blade before lightening spread down his leg and out through his pelvis. This time, as gut wrenching agony stole whatever may have been left of his pride and metal caught against the bone in his thigh, he cried out, doubling over around the knife handle jutting from his body.

As the cry guttered out into a mindless, lost groan, “Don’t kill him. If you kill him, how is he supposed to suffer?” 

“I’m not gonna kill him,” Said the other, hovering over Shiro. It took him no effort to grab the back of the don’s shirt collar and pull enough to straighten him out and get to the knife he’d left in the man’s thigh, just below his hip, “Now, if his friends don’t find him in time and he bleeds out, that’s not on me.” He ripped the blade free without remorse. “‘Sides. He’s done worse to those who’ve done less.”

“Another twenty minutes, then. Try to keep him quiet enough for me to make a phone call.” 

Shiro just barely caught the sound of his right-hand man’s name, spoken in disgustingly polite tones from across the room, but he didn’t hear Ichigo’s voice. If it were him making that phone call and another don laying on the floor, he’d have been reveling in the chaos and panic of the poor fool answering the other end of the line.

Instead, he choked on his own blood as he tried to get Ichigo’s name off his tongue. A tinkling laugh announced as his beating resumed.

–––

Ichigo skewed up already hardened features. “You want nothing from us?” He looked over at his partner, where Grimmjow sat silent and rigid. The moment Shiro’s number had scrolled across his phone’s caller ID, they’d known it was whoever had taken the boss, but they were expecting an ultimatum, a monetary value, something. What they got was an address and the assurance that their friend would be waiting for them, and then the call was terminated just as unexpectedly.

The address given lead them to an all but abandoned segment of the city. New construction had torn up the ground and created a clearing. Freshly paved, quaint little roads crisscrossed the new housing development, but only a few houses had been built thus far. They were lead to one near the center of the new edition and the handler’s intuition and training told him it was too far from any of its neighbors for a struggle to be heard.

Ichigo sprang through the doorway, gun drawn, the moment Grimmjow kicked the front door in. It bounced back toward him. He absently, automatically blocked it with his shoulder as he scanned the room opened up to him; empty. The house seemed quiet. The smell or fresh paint was sharp in the air. “This is a trap,” He whispered to his partner, “It has to be.”

But there was nothing else for him to do about it. They couldn’t abandon their boss, their friend, so he waded into the dark space anyway. To his left, it opened into a seating area, also empty. It wasn’t even furnished. No one lived here, it’d yet to even been completed, let alone put up for sale yet or rented out. 

Ichigo eased his way down a short hallway, toward a set of stairs that led up to a second floor. Grimmjow checked the door beside the staircase; another empty room, before the two set out up the stairs as quiet as they could go.

The second floor was as empty as the first but a small smattering of blood stained the carpet at the top of the landing and Ichigo’s features hardened. They’d said they’d left him alive and waiting for them, but the handler was hardly willing to take the words of the person responsible for his friend’s kidnapping.

He started for the nearest door, but Grimmjow grabbed him by the shoulder, quiet. When he glanced at his hunter, the big man didn’t say a word, didn’t motion, didn’t even look at him. His frigid blue eyes were trained on the very last door at the end of the short walk unerringly.

Ichigo trusted his judgement and went for that door instead, hand hesitating for the slightest of seconds, before he twisted the knob. The room was dark as he eased the door open, dark and silent, but the thick smell of blood was heavy in the air, nauseating while mixed with the smell of the paint.

He flipped on the light and froze. 

Blood spattered in a fine mist across the far wall and spread out into an ugly puddle at the base and, curled in on himself in that ghastly stain, Shiro lay still on his side. He faced away from them, bared of his white jacket. The arm pinned below his weight was twisted at an awkward angle.

“H-he’s not moving.” The words tumbled from Ichigo’s trembling lips.

Grimmjow pushed passed him, “He’s not dead.”

“He’s-“

“I know.” He cut the repeated sentence off. “He’s harder to kill than that, Ichigo.” 

The carpet squished wetly under his boots as he neared the motionless form of their boss. If it was at all possible, he looked even paler than normal, no life to be found in his usually lively figure. It was only when he lowered himself to his knees, absently noting the warmth soaking through his jeans, that he could hear the weak, ragged gasps. Relief flooded his system, followed quickly by rage and a new dose of worry. “He’s alive.” He confirmed, knowing it’d break the spell that had fallen over his partner, “But he’s in rough shape.”

The air was shaky in his lungs as Ichigo lurched from the doorway where he’d froze. Shiro was his friend, the younger man was like a brother to him. He felt sick to his stomach in a way he’d never felt before, but for now he had business to finish. Rushing unsteadily to Grimmjow’s side, he helped the hunter gently shift the boss onto his back.

Shiro’s reaction was a barely there, pitiful cry of agony. Sickly golden eyes fluttered open but were hazy with the pain and the torture and he didn’t see who knelt before him, not really. He choked on his words, blood pooling in his mouth, before he begged in a harsh wheeze, “No more… no more, p-please…”


	2. drabble one -part 2

The don woke up slowly, the steady, rhythmic sound of low pressurized air a faint presence to help pull him from the inviting blackness that sat behind his closed eyes. He blinked them open and it seemed to take hours before he was fully aware of himself and his surroundings enough to be considered awake. He pushed out a low, airy groan and started to shift, automatically twisting to throw his feet over the side of his bed as if to get up. 

Pain lanced through him like wildfire, enough to steal the breath from his lungs and earn a quiet but sharp cry as he froze half way through the motion of sitting up.

The sound drew another’s attention and in his peripheral, Byakuya stood from a chair and drew nearer. A well veiled look of concern pulled at his regal features, “The doctor came by about an hour ago to deliver pain medications. You were pretty out of it.” 

Shiro snorted, body stiff as he tried to breathe around the pain of moving. Finally he gave up and slowly eased himself back into the mountain of pillows around him, having a hard time getting his lungs to work again. His distorted voice was tight. “He did a shit job.” After a moment of settling in better, he looked around, slow to register his surroundings, and frowned up at the other don, “This- We’re not in my home… I’m not–” 

“No,” Byakuya agreed, taking a backward step to drag the chair he’d been seated in closer, so that he could comfortably be nearer his superior’s level without it seeming degrading to either of them. “You’re not in the hospital either, but your mansion is on lockdown. I’ve got people there handling it. You’re in my home for now, where you can rest safely.”

“Where’s– Where’re…” Shiro paused, a wince tugging across his features. He took a moment to breathe in deep, controlled breathes, before trying again. “Where’re my– guys?”

“In the kitchen. They haven’t left your side for days, Shiro. I sent them away and told them I’d look after you while they took care of themselves. You’ve got a small army here, concerned about your wellbeing.”

The don nodded, swallowing dryly. He again tried to shift, but only succeeded in adding a deeper ache to the quickly growing list, failing entirely to make himself comfortable. “Your trip-?” He grit out through another wave of pain that made him dizzy. He furrowed his brow, closing his eyes through the sensation as he waited for it to subside.

Byakuya climbed to his feet and walked around the bed that had been dragged into the middle of one wall. It wasn’t a hospital bed and it had taken three of his men to get the heavy wooden frame down the hall and turned sideways through the doorway, but it was the best he had. The doctor, who’d practically been glued to his boss’s and lover’s side through the past few days, had said he’d make a trip to the mansion for something more appropriate when he had the chance, but Byakuya was unconcerned. The makeshift hospital room wasn’t as fine as the one set up in Shirosaki’s mansion -the designing of which had been overseen by the good doctor himself- but it served its purpose on such short notice.

•

And short notice it had been. The sun had just started to color the horizon when the lower don had been awakened by his sister. The look on her face had been enough to shake off his sleep and he’d dressed in a rush, throwing on nothing more than the pants from the day prior and an undershirt he’d grabbed from a pile of clean but not yet put away laundry. Ichigo had been at his door, hovering in the entryway wild-eyed and covered in sticky, fresh blood.

‘We didn’t know where else to bring him…” The hunter had rushed through by way of explanation, “The doctor’s on his way, he’ll be here soon. A-a few minutes at most.’ He’d had the look of a man in shock and on the verge of panic, but he didn’t crack throughout the entire nightmare that morning had become, at least not while Byakuya had been around.

As Byakuya had tried to inquire further, looking the hitman over and not seeing an obvious wound, Ichigo’s partner had shouldered his way into view through the doorway, snarling like an animal at the first person to overcome their shock and rush towards him to help. Limp and unconscious in his hold, Shirosaki was cradled closely, protectively, not a single sign of life in the normally surly man. His white pants had been nearly unrecognizable and the matching jacket was missing entirely, the dark undershirt saturated and torn and clinging to the don’s damaged torso. They’d only been able to pry the hunter away once the doctor arrived to take over and even then he’d paced like a stalking cat outside the door while the doctor worked, glaring murder at anyone brave enough to near. He’d only stopped when adrenaline had run low and fatigue had forced him to. He and his partner had sat like grieving men in the hall outside the door, waiting for word from the doctor.

It had been tense for a while that morning and there were several stressful hours, while the doctor tried to identify all of the don’s injuries, external and internal, where those hovering nearby wondered if the boss would pull through. But like Grimmjow had said at least a half dozen times by then; Shirosaki was harder to kill than that.

•

Grabbing a glass that had been left nearby, he dumped the contents and filled it with fresh water from a bottle that sat beside it. Returning to the boss’s side, he handed it over, careful to make sure Shiro had a good hold of it before letting go. “Hisana will understand.” He said quietly, “I’ll visit her when this is over and you’re back on your feet.”

“Well.” Shiro’s hand shook as he took the glass, easing it to his lips because lifting his arm that high made a sharp sting spread through his chest. Byakuya was patient, the older don wouldn’t be offended by the extra second it took him. “We wont keep her waitin’ long.”

A slight smile seeped into the other’s features as Byakuya took the glass and set it aside again. “So resilient,” He mused, “I wouldn’t be surprised if even this didn’t keep you down. I pity your enemies.”

In the coming days, that resilience would be put to the test. When next he awoke, it was with a total loss of sense of time. He remembered talking with Byakuya, but couldn’t remember when the room had fallen quiet, nor when Byakuya had pulled the light blanket back over his bandaged middle. Nor did he remember the doctor coming in with more painkillers, though he vaguely remembered Ichigo calling Szayel an asshole. Or maybe that had been aimed at him…

When next he came around enough to be considered awake, he did so much more carefully and with a frown. There was pressure around his chest, like the blanket was way too heavy. He tried to push it down and only then realized he couldn’t bend or straighten his arm. The fingers of the same hand were black and blue and the cast keeping the bones of his broken arm in place seemed an insurmountable weight. He frowned at it harder, using his other side to try pushing himself a little more upright in the bed. The pain that lanced through his chest stole the air from his lungs and he cringed through a short round of coughing.

Across the room, Ichigo jolted at the sound, jerking his head from his hand, where he’d fallen asleep looking after the boss. 

“You’re the asshole.” Shiro managed when he’d caught his breath again, voice quiet and rough. He dropped his hand to his chest, again trying to push the heavy blanket off, but it was already down around his waist and his fingers caught in compression bandaging instead.

Ichigo laughed and there was, perhaps, a little too much relief in the sound. “Of course you’d remember that.” Climbing to his feet, he crossed the small space. 

“Course. Ca-an’t trash talk the boss and expect me not ta know.” His features contorted and he started pulling at the wrap around his chest, motions a little uncoordinated and sluggish. “Too tight… I can’t breathe.”

Ichigo rushed the half step still between himself and the bedside and put a stop to it before the don could actually unwrap the bandaging. “It has to stay, Shiro. Is it too tight or does it just hurt to breathe?”

It took him a delayed second to answer, before he swallowed dryly around the ache in his chest. “Both?”

“It still has to stay. You have four broken ribs and multiple fractures. I’ll ask Dr. Granz though, and see if we can loosen it some.” The handler nodded slightly, studying his friend’s bruised features. Most of the blood had been cleaned from him, though here and there dried remnants could be found around stitches and bandages. And medication had done wonders to reduce swelling, but the don was still a mess from head to toe. He’d taken quite the beating. After days of drifting in and out of consciousness, it was good to see the man a little more aware this time around. “How are you feeling today?”

Shiro half glared at him. “That’s gotta be the dumbest question you ever asked me.” He again tried to ease himself a little more upright and again failed when fire ignited in his everything. Breathing through the flash, he pushed out through clenched teeth. “But I’m awake, so help me up.”

Ichigo shook his head but there was amusement on his features. As carefully as they both could be, he helped Shiro sit up and helped support his weight until they could stack enough pillows behind the boss to keep him there. After the few short minutes it took, Shiro needed a moment to rest, the simple change in position and the discomfort it brought enough to wear him out further. After that second, he pushed out a deeper, but careful breath and gingerly settled his hand over his aching chest. The crack of splintering wood echoed in his memory and he flinched.

His righthand man and best friend must have noticed because he angled the boss a look. “You alright?” Ichigo asked softly.

“Mm? Yeah.” Shiro nodded, attention dropping slightly. “Feel like shit, but-“

“You look like it, too.” Grimmjow’s growling voice held an edge of amusement as he walked through the door, his blue eyes bright as he looked Shiro over before he headed for Ichigo, handing him a steaming cup of tea. “It’s good to see you awake.”

“Fuck you too.” Shiro snorted a laugh, “Man, I’m outta it for a few days and my two most trusted guys start talkin’ smack. I thought we were friends.”

“Really? That’s what you thought?” Grimmjow grunted an amused sound of surprise when he caught a hit from his partner as Ichigo scoffed and gave him a look.

Then the handler turned back toward their boss. “Yeah,” He said with a slight nod, “We’re your friends, Shiro.”

He was awake when Szayel returned with another dose of pain medication this time. The doctor lit up when he walked in to see his boss and lover awake, but was quick to tone it down to a cheery, if a bit creepy, little smile when he noticed the other two in the room. He sat himself down on the edge of the bed as he injected the drugs into the don’s IV, running through a short list of questions intended to gauge the state of Shiro’s progress and comfort. When the don confessed the tightness in his chest and constrained breathing, the doctor agreed to loosen the bandaging.

“It was difficult to guess how tight to wrap it with you unconscious.” He explained, motioning one of the hitmen -it didn’t much matter which- over when he realized how much Shiro struggled to sit up straight and keep himself there while the doctor tried to begin unwinding the bandaging. “But I know you too well to think you’d lay still in this bed long enough to heal, so the wrap is necessary for a while, I’m afraid.”

Ichigo started to hand the steaming cup of tea back to Grimmjow, but the hunter dropped a hand to his partner’s shoulder in a staying gesture and didn’t wait for Ichigo’s response to step to the boss’s side. 

Shiro not only struggled to stay upright and still, he was nearly in agony as the doctor and Grimmjow helped him maneuver enough for Szayel to get to him properly. He grit his teeth, his one good hand a vice grip on Grimmjow’s arm as the big man lent his support and strength. The air shuddered in and out of his lungs in pained but controlled breaths and no matter how much Granz and the hunter held him and took his weight, he couldn’t help but hunch forward around his damaged body.

Halfway through having the compression wrap rewound about his injured ribcage, Shiro grit out a watery, “Hurry it up, Szazy…” He trembled with the effort to remain still, swallowing dryly.

Even Szayel winced at the request and the obvious discomfort, though it was slight. “Almost done.” He assured, sounding professional and calm. And when he tucked the last end against the don’s bowed spine, he asked, “How’s that? A little easier to breathe?”

Shiro hissed an almost annoyed breath, all his focus on not looking completely pitiful as the two helped ease him back again. “Ask again-“ He said between breaths, “when I can actually breathe.”

Szayel chuckled a chiming sound, but nodded. He sent a cursory glance back towards the don’s right hand men, before retaking his seat on the edge of the bed at the man’s side. Grimmjow and Ichigo took their silent leave, though paused long enough to pointedly set the don’s phone near him on a small table within easy reach, “Call if you need anything.”

Shiro nodded but his features were still pinched as they closed the door behind themselves.

When they returned a few hours later, peeking in as they edged the door open, they found Shiro out cold and sleeping deeply rather than the troubled, injury and medication induced rest he was getting before. His good arm was pushed under the doctor and wrapped around Szayel’s waist, while the doctor laid on his side, facing the don. Szayel only stirred when the door started to open, lifting his head enough to arch questioning, pink brows at the two. He didn’t want to wake the injured boss any more than they did. When Ichigo shook his head slightly and backed out of the doorway, ever so quietly pulling the door closed again, the doctor settled back in, carefully brushing long, pale hair from bruised, exhausted features.

In the next few days, the don became increasingly more aware and awake more often. It wasn’t long before he was itching to get out of that bed, to get back to his own home and his own people and business. Of course, all of that was easier said than done.

Late one evening, after he’d sent the handful of men he had at Byakuya’s estate with him away for the night, Shiro painstakingly untangled himself from the blanket thrown over his lap. Breath caught and held, he gingerly pushed himself upright and to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over the side. With his sock-clad feet flat on the floor, he sat there for a minute, wincing through the sharp stab of broken ribs and damaged muscle. After that much needed, but short lived rest, he reached across himself to the small end table that had been dragged over to his bedside and snagged his phone, cigarettes and a little plastic lighter that someone had graciously given him the first time he’d been awake long enough to express his need for a smoke break. It was just a cheap piece of garbage from a gas store and he more remembered lighting up that first cigarette after the assbeating he took than he did who had handed it to him. Must have been one of Byakuya’s guys, though, since none of the men he had there smoked. Unless Ichigo took it up as a nervous habit sometime during the week just passed. 

Possible, the don decided, as he took a fortified breath and again began easing himself into motion. Everyone kept telling him to go easy on himself, to rest and take his time recovering, but if he had to sit in that bed and stare at the same wall for another second, he was going to go stir crazy.

Straightening enough for something that resembled walking made his body ache, and the first step he took unsupported, as he pushed away from the bed, had fire racing down his leg. The stab wound, where a vicious blade had sank deep, past muscle to scrape against bone, stole the strength from him and his leg buckled. He managed to half fall, half hobble to the nearest wall, where the little table had been shoved up against, before he could hit the ground and suddenly making it the ten feet to the door seemed an insurmountable distance.

But sitting back down wasn’t quite an option yet, so he took several seconds to regroup before trying again. 

“Alright..” He said to himself under his breath, bracing. “One more try.” And this time he’d know what to expect. The damn door wasn’t on the ideal side of the room, though, or maybe it was more accurate to say they’d broken the wrong arm. He had to reach across himself with his good one to brace against the wall he leaned on as he began again, oh so careful of putting weight on his injured leg, and just as careful about twisting his body too much while he used the wall as support. It was the most awkward, terrible five and a half, shuffling steps he’d ever taken in his life, he decided, and by the time he’d made it nearly to the door frame, he was ready to admit to himself this wasn’t going to work.

Upon glancing over his shoulder back towards his borrowed bed, however, and confronting the idea of being bedridden for at least another night, he changed his mind and instead decided that maybe he just didn’t have the right tools for the job readily at his disposal… Giving himself a second to catch his breath, he edged into and leaned against the open doorframe, glancing first one way and then the other down the hall. He pulled the phone from the pocket of his sweats and pulled up a name on speed dial. 

The answer was nearly immediate; a mildly concerned,“Sir?”

“Grimmjow.” Shiro greeted, trying not to let the strain show in his voice, “Did I wake ya?” He could hear the shift of cloth in the background and a zipper being drawn.

“No, I was just about to turn in-“

“What about Ichigo? He still awake too?”

“No, but he wont mind if I wake–“

Again Shiro cut him off, rushing the short conversation despite trying to sound unworried and not in a hurry. “Good, let him sleep. Listen, since you’re up still. Why don’t ya take a walk with me?”

“…a walk?” There was a pause and Shiro could practically hear the big man’s mind working out the issue with that idea. Then a snorted laugh, before Grimmjow agreed. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

True to his word, Grimmjow made a quick appearance, looking mildly surprised when he realized Shiro was already out of bed and hovering in the doorway. The don gave him a guilty smirk, confessing, “As far as I got…”

Grimmjow didn’t make a big deal of it. He understood the itch to stretch one’s legs, the need to get out. So he chuckled a short laugh and offered a strong arm for the smaller to hang onto and his strength to take whatever weight Shiro couldn’t manage himself at the moment.

The going was slow, and every step that landed on Shiro’s injured leg, Grimmjow took most of the weight of, but the two eventually ended up in Byakuya’s courtyard. In a traditional, Japanese koi pond, large fish of various oranges and whites and yellows swam in lazy patterns. A decorative stone bench sat against the bank of it and Grimmjow helped Shiro ease himself down for a break.

Shiro nodded his gratitude, reaching into his pocket again to this time pull out the pack of cigarettes and the lighter. He shook one free, bringing the carton up to place the butt between his lips and pull it free. Dropping the carton to the bench between them, he flicked the lighter a few times before it caught and he could light up. 

“I’m just gonna forewarn ya; I plan on chainsmokin’ this entire pack before we go back inside, so.” He said, a bit of amusement on his features and blue smoke curling from his nostrils. “Might be a minute.”

Grimmjow didn’t mind. Being outside was always more comfortable than being cooped up inside, especially in someone else’s home. And Shiro was safe enough here, allowing him to lower his guard a bit while he sat on the bench next to his friend. “Shiro?” He began after a few moments of easy silence. It was a subject everyone had been treading around lightly, not wanting to set the boss off while he recovered only for him to hurt himself further, or get impatient to see justice, but it was an important topic. “How much do you remember?”

The boss looked up, only to immediately drop his attention to the water a meter in front of their feet. A wince creased his black and blue features and he was slow to reply, “Most of it. I think.” He shrugged, “I don’t remember bein’ dragged into that house, or leavin’, or how I got ta Bya’s. Or when they decided they were done–“

It didn’t escape the hunter’s notice that he spoke of the things he didn’t remember, rather the what he did. Grimmjow frowned, interrupting, “They?”

Again Shiro nodded, still looking out at the pond for a moment before he seemed to startle himself into motion, movements a little jerky when he started shaking out a second cigarette. “Yep. Two of ‘em. A blind one that did all the talkin’ and a quiet one that was the muscle. No idea who they were, but they sure as hell knew who I am, and my old man. And you two. They knew a lot, Grimm, more than they shoulda. More than I’ve ever told anyone and aside from Ichigo and me, everyone else that woulda known those things is dead.”

Grimmjow was hesitant to bring it up, “…maybe they were around before you took over?”

The don shrugged but seemed less than convinced. “That’s what I thought too, asked ‘em if they had been affiliated with my father but I don’t think that’s the case.” After another moment, while Shiro filled his lungs with smoke, he shook his head. “Listen. This-“ He half waved his hand, “stays between the three of us for now. I’m gonna look pitiful enough around the family without showin’ whatever else is goin’ on.”

The hunter frowned again, looking over at his boss, “What do you mean? What else?”

But Shiro shook his head, unable to give answer more than a quiet, “I dunno. Somethin’s off. I don’t feel like myself.”

Grimmjow knew what it felt like to be bedridden and hospitalized: confined. It did things to you, especially if you were a man as powerful as Shiro, as used to being in control as the don of a very powerful mafia branch. “Being stuck inside all day will do that to you. It’ll wear off now that you’re startin’ to feel well enough to get on your feet a little.”

The smaller took a second to respond, but nodded slightly and took another drag of his cigarette, wincing as he blew smoke through his nose. “Yeah. That’s probably it.”


	3. drabble one -part 3

Last installment of this particular drabble :)   
On top of previous warnings, this chapter also contains smut. Shiro/Szazy.  


 

\-----------

 

The evening was dragging on and fatigue weighed heavily on him. Between his healing injuries and the meds, he was exhausted. His hand trembled slightly as he pushed a bite of food around on his plate with a fork, staring down at the meal sightlessly. There were other things on his mind, more important things than eating, more pressing things.

His other arm was in a sling, still casted clear from the middle of his upper arm, down to his wrist and around his thumb, as the bones healed. They’d messed him up good. He couldn’t even tie his hair back on his own and the long, white strands hung loose around his shoulders, framing features that were far more blank than usual. He could barely piss on his own, and getting dressed was a nightmare. And showering. Hell, even just getting out of or into bed hurt. Everything was various shades of black and blue and purple and it all hurt. He’d pulled a few of the stitches in his leg the night prior and getting sewn up again had been the most tolerable of his ailments.

His fork scraped against the plate as he flinched at nothing but what occupied his thoughts.

At his side, seated in a chair adjacent to him, Ichigo sighed a worried sound. There might have been a bit of frustration there too. Shiro couldn’t tell, hadn’t been paying enough attention.

The handler reached over and pulled the barely touched plate away. The boss had managed a few bites at best, but it wasn’t enough. The younger man was coming apart at the seams, ever since he’d recuperated enough to be awake and a little more active. “Come on, Shiro… It’s been three days, you have to try.” He replaced the meal with the don’s favorite dessert. 

He’d called Shiro’s favorite little diner on the other side of town and asked them to make it to go for him. The diner didn’t usually make carryout orders unless it was for catering events and Ichigo had been prepared to order all of Byakuya’s men dinner and dessert if that’s what it took to get something that Shiro might be able to stomach, but after speaking over the phone with Shiro’s usual waiter, and then the owner, they’d made an exception. It hadn’t really been a lie when he had told the concerned owner that their favorite patron had been feeling under the weather.

He didn’t send a driver to pick the order up, he sent Grimmjow instead, incase whoever had done this to Shiro was looking for him. He and the hunter both wanted to get their hands on those responsible, but no such luck had come of it.

Gold eyes shifted to focus on the treat in front of him. It was hard to make his fingers close around the spoon, between the jittery tremble and the lack of focus. He took two, slow bites before he set the spoon down, shook his head minutely, and pushed the dessert away like he would be sick. It was his favorite, but he just couldn’t stomach it and part of that left an even deeper ache in the pit of his gut.

“Shi…”

Flattening his one good hand against the table top, he started to push himself from his chair, only to get his weight under him and nearly collapse. Ichigo scrambled to his side, grabbing him to help keep him upright just as he caught himself. “ ‘m fine.” The don muttered, steadying himself with a hand wrapped around his friend’s forearm as he took another wobbling step. “ ‘m fine, just don’t feel so great.”

“It’s because you need to eat, you need to get something into your stomach.” Ichigo urged, arm held out to give his boss and friend something to anchor onto and his other hand hovering over the small of his back, waiting to react if the man stumbled again.

“I can’t.” Shiro said with another shake of his head. He limped as they headed for the door, steps ginger. No matter how many times they’d tried to get him to use a wheelchair while he healed, he refused. He couldn’t let his men see him sink that low.

“You need to try.” The handler said again, but didn’t try to turn them back to the forgotten table and the barely touched food that sat there. 

They paused in the doorway as Shiro dropped his hand to the stab wound in his thigh, hanging his head slightly as he pushed a breath out between his teeth. After a second, he reached into the pocket of his pants and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He was surprisingly successful at shaking one free of the pack, and placing it between his lips before pushing the carton back into his pocket and fishing his lighter out instead. He glared at the plastic, gas store bic lighter for a second, before flicking it to life and bringing it up to the cigarette to light up. “Need a new zippo.” He muttered around the cigarette as he dropped the lighter back into his pocket as well, “Only thing they took besides my dignity.” He took that first lungful like it was air itself, before he decided he was ready to continue down the hall, his pace measured as Ichigo trailed at his side.

Later that night, as he lay in his borrowed, makeshift hospital bed and the painkillers he’d been given numbed him enough to sleep, he tossed and turned with his dreams. He wrestled with the feeling of being vulnerable, of being touchable. Of being weak enough to be tortured and weak enough to be unable to stop it.

An hour or so after the boss had finally managed to fall asleep, Szayel was woken up by the bathroom door being pushed open fast enough that it bounced off the door stop. He jerked upright in bed, yellow eyes darting from the yawning doorway, to the empty space where his powerful lover should have been, and back, before he pushed aside the blankets and padded to the bathroom to check on the injured man. He found Shiro on his knees, his weight braced on the edge of the bowl and bent over the toilet. He trembled as another dry heave wracked through him with a cold violence. 

“J-just a bad dream.” He assured, not straightening. He breathed in labored pants, letting go of the toilet bowl long enough to motion for Szayel to go back to bed, “Just-“ The entirety of his body convulsed with another heave as he gagged on nothing. When it was over, he dropped to his butt on the cool, tile floor, exhausted and trembling. “Ugh. Fuck…” He didn’t have the energy to get back to his feet and he didn’t bother trying. He accepted a glass of water being handed to him with a shaky hand.

A few minutes later, when they were sure the episode was over, Szayel grunted as he stooped and lifted the smaller from the floor. Shiro put up the slightest of resistance, before he gave in and accepted it, letting his head rest against the doctor’s shoulder. “God. I’m pathetic.” He whispered.

“No, Shiro, you’re injured.”

“It’s more than that.”

“No.” The doctor insisted, though his tone was anything but insistent. He laid his powerful lover on the bed and helped him arrange the blankets, “It’s just a different type of wound.” He climbed into the bed at the don’s side, “I’m taking you off the pain medication.” He decided, “At least until you can stomach something solid. It’s doing more harm than good at this point.”

Shiro said nothing. After a moment, he rolled over and settled back in, worn out and too tired to care.

That next morning he most certainly felt the difference. Pain tightened his lungs and not just the dull ache he’d been contending with the last few days, but a sharp stab of lightening that accompanied his movements. It made him even more irritable than he’d been before.

“Shiro, stop this. No one will think any less of–“

The don cut Ichigo off with a sharp look. All the dark bruising to his features certainly didn’t soften his anger when he decided to show it. “Ichigo, what- Be honest with me, what d’you think we do?” He shook his head as if in disbelief. “You’re a mafioso, Ichigo, and I’m a don. You realize that, don’t ya? We work and live with a bunch of thieves and murderers-“

“Shiro-“

The sharp look turned sharper and Shiro raised a hand so fast Ichigo flinched minutely, almost expecting to be struck. But Shiro had never physically assaulted his own men and the motion was a staying one, meant to silence him. It worked. “Don’t interrupt me again.” The don hissed, his patience thin, understandably so. “Now, my family’s loyal, I know they are. I’m not tryin’ ta say they’re not. But, Ichigo, they’re ambitious too, or they wouldn’t be part of my family, this high on the chain, they’d be in a lower one or dead. You know what happens to a don that’s seen as weak? A leader that’s vulnerable? Ask my father, I’m sure he’ll remind you.”

Ichigo took a breath as if to speak, to reassure the younger that he and Grimmjow would never let that happen, but thought better of it and pushed the air out as a controlled sigh. He nodded slightly, conceding the point and letting his boss know the argument was over.

Shiro matched the motion, “Good. Now have a car pulled around.” Then the hard look on his features softened and his voice dropped to something quieter and less commanding. He went back to gathering the few things he’d had brought over to Byakuya’s mansion for him. “I wanna take a bath in my own tub and sleep in my own bed. I wanna go home, Ichigo.”

The admission and the change in Shiro’s demeanor pulled at Ichigo’s heart. He realized then that this had less to do with not wanting to be seen as weak and afraid by his men and more to do with feeling exactly that. The boss wasn’t returning because it might still be dangerous and he felt the need to be present for the dirty work, Shiro wanted to return because that’s where he felt safest, where he felt most like himself.

Ichigo almost felt bad that he’d argued against it. Almost. He pushed out a low sigh and nodded again, “I’ll call and inform Tatsuki, have a final sweep of the area done, have guys posted around the block.”

“Fine.” Shiro agreed simply, not looking up. He was honestly too worn down to really be concerned one way or another about it, so long as his wishes were met. Let Ichigo fuss over him and his safety, god knew Ichigo had had a hand in keeping him alive a few times by now.

Half an hour later saw them making their way down the hall, Shiro leading the small group with don Byakuya at his side like the good host he was. The taller walked arm in arm with his superior, offering physical support in a way that didn’t also bruise the younger’s already battered ego. Their pace was easy-going and relaxed, something Shiro could keep without straining himself, as they spoke between themselves.

“I owe ya for this, Bya.” Shiro admitted. “I wont forget your generosity.”

“Nonsense.” The other don said with a small, gracious smile. “You and your men have been nothing but good to me and mine since our partnership, Shiro. It’s how a family works.”

Shiro managed a short chuckle.

Not far behind the two, Grimmjow, Ichigo, and Szayel trailed, watching the pair. Ichigo turned a glare on the doctor, “You took him off the pain meds? Are you cruel?”

Szayel rolled his eyes and sighed a short breath. “Don’t ask me for updates if you don’t like them.” He said curtly, but explained, if only because pissing off the handler or his hunter was bad for his own health and Shiro was just messed up enough to possibly let a beating pass. He adjusted his glasses, a small but heavy bag filled with medical supplies slung over one shoulder, “The medication is too strong while he’s not eating. It’s making his nausea worse. He woke up dry heaving last night and while it was a dream that triggered the violent reaction, the painkillers made it worse. When we can get him eating again, I’ll administer more.”

“How do we do that?” Grimmjow asked, attention still trained ahead of them, upon the two high standing men and the doorway they were approaching.

The doctor shrugged a dainty motion, “However we must. Bargain with him, beg. I’ll give him an appetite stimulant. And perhaps just being in his own space will help.”

Once back at his own mansion, Shiro did exactly what he said he would. He rose from the back of the car with a helping hand but he stepped through the ruined front entrance of his mansion under his own power, hiding his limp as best he could and a clean, white suit jacket thrown over his shoulders. His long hair hung down his back. In the car, Ichigo had offered to pull it up for him but he’d declined, flicking a cigarette butt out the window before reaching for a fresh one.

His eyes scanned the damage but as he entered the front foyer, his attention inevitably fell upon his gathered henchmen. Nearly everyone under his employ stood before him, welcoming him home, faces he recognized one and all. He pushed a smirk across his lips, a stream of blue smoke pouring from his nostrils, before he reached up with his good hand to pull the cigarette from between his lips. “It’s good ta be back.” He announced, hoping he sounded more assured of that then he felt. His pulse pushed uncomfortably against the deep, purple bruising that ringed his throat where a harsh forearm had cut off the air reaching his lungs until he’d passed out. He replaced the cigarette, letting his smirk grow to a sharp grin around it as he pulled at the loose tie around his neck. Szayel had tied it for him, loose like he’d asked, but tight enough to look clean cut and professional. “We gotta lotta work ta do.” He turned on his heel, the motion ginger, and took in the damage to his mansion’s entrance from the inside. Then turned back to his people, “First things first; get someone in here ta fix that. Can’t run an empire if the castle’s blown ta pieces. Tatsu, fill Ichigo in on whatever we’ve missed. Szazy, run ahead and set up whatever you gotta and make sure my rooms’re clean. Draw me a bath too.” He was going to need help with it anyway, so he might as well have it waiting for him when he got there. As an afterthought, as the slim doctor was inclining his head in a small but respectful nod, he added, “And a glass of wine.” To Grimmjow, he said nothing as he began wading through the gathered members of his family.

The hitman was intuitive enough to follow at the smaller’s side, keeping his pace looking relaxed and at ease so that the boss didn’t feel or look pressured to keep up. Shiro sent out a vague order for everyone to get back to work, saying they could have a day off when he was officially dead. It earned a few laughs as those around them welcomed him back but hurried to return to their prior duties.

Half way down the hall, Shiro hobbled along at Grimmjow’s side. “Was my actin’ convincing enough?”

Grimmjow arched a brow and a bit of a smirk tugged at one corner of his lips, “I didn’t realize you were acting.” He said, and whether or not it was true or simply meant to put him at ease, Shiro couldn’t tell.

He snorted a laugh as they reached the door to his suite. It was already unlocked and when he pushed it open he could hear the water running from inside. “I can manage from here, you’re free ta join Ichigo. After he’s finished talking over business, you two are welcome ta take the resta the day off.”

Amusement cut across handsome features. “But you’re not dead yet.” 

Shiro worked up a short round of laughter, “Yeah, well. Thanks ta you two.” He said, turning away from the big man to head deeper into his private rooms, a hand against the doorframe to steady himself. Not looking back, he continued, “I already pay ya, what more d’you want as reward?”

Grimmjow shook his head, glad to see the don’s usual humor showing through. But maybe it was still part of his act. Shiro was surprisingly good at that, he decided. It came with the job. “Shiro.” He said, stopping the man in his tracks, but didn’t approach, “An act or not, you’re strong. Strong enough to get through this. Until then, Ichigo, me, everyone here, we’re here to make sure nothing blindsides you again while you rest.”

He couldn’t see the man’s face, but he saw the strong, rigid set of Shiro’s shoulders fall slightly under the jacket draped across his back. When Shiro nodded slightly, Grimmjow eased back a bit, out of the doorway so that he could shut it behind the smaller, “Night, boss.”

“G’night, Grimmjow.” Shiro listened to the quiet latch of the door as it shut, before he began the short trek through his chambers. He shed the jacket as he crossed through the kitchen, dropping it across the back of a chair. Next, he began working the strap of the sling keeping his broken arm tight against him, then the buttons of his shirt.

Szayel was already halfway through filling the sizable bathtub with steaming hot water. A clean towel hung on the rack nearby and a glass of wine sat on the cool marble of the sink countertop. The bottle wasn’t far away.

He dropped the sling to the floor, uncaring of where it landed, and began the arduous task of shrugging out of his button-up shirt, breath held as he stretched and twisted around broken and bruised ribs.

The doctor looked up and watched for half a second, before he straightened from the side of the tub and moved to help, crossing behind the don to help peel the dress shirt from his clearly uncomfortable form.

“Why’re you still dressed?” Shiro asked, his tone controlled as he pushed out an exhale.

A single, elegant pink brow rose and the doctor spoke from behind his boss as he found the end of the compression wrap that wound in layers around Shiro’s damaged torso. “I wasn’t aware I’d be joining you.”

Shiro’s voice edged on sardonic, “I can’t even get undressed on my own.”

The doctor smiled a bit, rolling the wrap up in one hand while he worked, “Oh please, you’re too stubborn for that. You would have managed with or without my help.” The don didn’t have a defense and Szayel chuckled as he brushed long, pale hair aside and let his lips ghost across the back of the smaller’s neck. “Here, sit.” He instructed, nudging Shiro towards the bathtub so that he could sit on the edge while they worked on getting him out of his pants. It was both an easier task than the shirt and a more difficult one. It was infinitely less painful for him, but also even harder for him to get at on his own, since he only had one working arm at the moment and limited mobility in his torso to do the bending required to even reach his pants. But Szayel took care of it for him and when the don was naked, seated on the edge of the bathtub, he stepped back to quickly divest himself to match, absently reaching over to shut the water off.

“Who woulda thought havin’ a big bathtub would be a problem someday.” Shiro muttered as he began the painstaking task of actually getting into the tub and lowering himself into the water. The expanse of the tub made it difficult to reach the opposite side, giving him less to hang onto as he maneuvered, gingerly trying to get the leverage needed to slide into the blissfully warm water.

“I thought that’s why you wanted me here.” Szayel reminded offhandedly, stepping over the edge. “Perhaps if I was behind you, this would be easier.”

Shiro nodded his agreement of that plan but didn’t comment on it, snorting instead, “It is, but then you went and called me stubborn and I feel like I gotta prove myself.” Even as he spoke, most of this concentration was on trying to move about without bending too much, breath held as sharp pain creaked through his ribcage.

The doctor slid in behind him and from there he was able to help control the smaller’s decent. After a moment of awkward shuffling about, they were both in the tub and Shiro sighed his relief as he slowly relaxed back against the doctor, careful with the way he held himself, his casted arm resting across the top of the porcelain wall. 

The two took a few minutes to simply enjoy the warm water and the quiet. To Shiro, being in his own space felt like a vacation. The doctor’s slim arm was a welcome, careful pressure wrapped around his middle, under the surface of the water, a long-fingered hand held flat against his lower belly. Long legs splayed out on either side of his own and as thin and boney as Szayel was, he made for a surprisingly comfortable seat.

After those few moments, a cap popped open and Shiro opened his eyes to look over, having not even realized he’d closed them. The smell of shampoo was soft and fresh in the air, mixing with the heady scent of the wine he’d left on the counter.

“Tip your head back a bit more.” Szayel instructed quietly, shifting to one side a bit as he ran his fingers through pale hair. Shiro did so without complaint and he began massaging shampoo through the man’s mane, thin lips quirking at the pleased groan to creep up the boss’s throat.

“I needed this.” Shiro admitted, eyes closed again. He tipped his head to one side as he felt the doctor’s pretty features near his in a light brush of smooth skin. The taller’s breath was warm against the curve of his neck and that hand below the water inched lower along his waistline.

“I can only imagine.” The doctor murmured against damp skin, working shampoo into the don’s hair for a moment more before letting the length of the strands fall into the water again as he began rinsing it clean. When Shiro tipped his head back a little further to make it easier, straining slightly so as to keep his abdomen as straight as possible, the doctor leaned over him a little further, brushing lips across his jawline.

Shiro shifted slightly, a telling hardness beginning to stir below the water. “Szazy…” 

“Shh. Relax and let someone take care of you for a change.” The doctor shushed, knowing it was a gutsy thing to do, but he meant it all the same. The boss had been pushing himself too hard in the last few days. A release of his duty would do him good.

Shiro shook his head slightly, “I don’t think I have the energy ta screw you right now.”

Behind him, Szayel chimed a short laugh. “So eloquent, as always.” He said, “I meant let me take care of you.”

The don arched a brow slightly, but he wasn’t protesting. A soft inhale marked as fingers wrapped around his half hard length and began working him into a full erection. “I don’t have the strength ta straddle ya either…”

Szayel sighed a surprisingly dignified breath of exasperation, “I can do the work, Shiro. It’s ok for you to relax and enjoy it.” The water sloshed around them as the doctor carefully shifted in the large bathtub until he knelt between the don’s legs. He dropped a forearm on the edge of the tub, near where Shiro’s head rested, “Comfortable enough?” he asked, leaning low to graze teeth across the boss’s collarbone. The skin below his mouth was smooth but marked by the beating Shiro had taken, painting colors through pale flesh that normally didn’t mar the don’s sallow complexion. 

The don tipped his chin up in answer and the doctor assumed the soft gasp that accompanied the motion to be a yes. With a hand still wrapped around the man’s pale shaft, he brought his other hand between Shiro’s legs, dragging the pad of his finger across Shiro’s entrance at the same time as he began stroking a slow but steady rhythm.

Preparation was unrushed and gentle, starting with that single finger and soft, heated breaths. Then a second finger, working and stretching in an easy rhythm to match the pace the doctor set at Shiro’s cock.

Lips found the hollow of Shiro’s throat as hands costed further down his body to settle along his inner thighs, half lifting his lower half in the water while spreading his legs a little wider. A current of hot water matched as the doctor slid closer, on his knees in the bathtub, until the smaller was essentially in his lap. Shiro gasped a small sound as Szayel entered him, his good hand a vice grip upon the doctor’s slim shoulder. The first thrust was so maddeningly gentle he almost wouldn’t have believed it capable of coming from the normally deranged doctor.  
With the second thrust, Shiro bent a knee to hook a leg around the taller’s waist. His hand traveled up the side of Szayel’s neck until fingers could slide into pink hair. He slid the edge of his tongue along thin lips but didn’t quite kiss the man. Heat and pleasure hummed through his body, but so too did pressure and strain, starting at the core of him and spreading out to tighten damaged muscle. The pace wasn’t an overly hard one, but with each deeper than average breath that Shiro took, a sharpness like a thousand needle pricks scratched against the inside of his ribcage. 

He dropped his head forward to lean against the doctor’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut and teeth grit. The sounds that shuddered from him were a mix of pleasure and discomfort and his body was stiff, before he finally wrapped fingers around Szayel’s thin arm, “Szazy… S-stop. I can’t-“

Szayel stopped, pulling away enough to look down at the don with a frown.

Shiro didn’t match his eyes, giving a small shake to his head, but his features were pinched and his voice was tight, “…sorry-“

The doctor huffed a sound of disbelief and rested the back of his hand across Shiro’s forehead as he eased himself out and settled between Shiro’s legs more comfortably, “Sorry?,” He repeated, as if in disbelief, “Are you fevered too? Did infection set in? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that nasty little word.”

Shiro snorted between breaths, “Tell anyone and I’ll cut your tongue out.”

“Much better.” Leaning to one side, he dripped water across the cool floor as he reached for the forgotten glass of wine he’d poured. He handed it over, “Lets finish this bath, then.” and grabbed the soap instead.

A slight but appreciative smirk settled on pale features as Shiro worked on relaxing again, sipping his wine as his lover helped bathe him. Half an hour later, between the glass of wine on an incredibly empty stomach and all the slick, less than fully innocent touching, Shiro’s, nor the doctor’s, libido had settled much. And while the wine may have given him a reasonable buzz, it certainly didn’t numb him enough for another try at sex in the bathtub.

When they were done, Szayel helped Shiro to his feet, chuckling a quiet sound when the smaller stumbled a step and it was only half due to his poor state. Shiro matched the laugh, “I can’t remember the last time I managed ta get drunk off wine.”

Szayel shook his head and handed a towel over, helping Shiro wrap it about himself. “You’re not quite there yet.”

“Nah, but another glass and I’d be on my way.” The don admitted, accepting the help and shifting to try to ease some of the discomfort in his body. As annoying as that wrap was, he was starting to miss the support if gave him. 

Szayel dried himself off in a rush and draped the towel he’d used over the smaller’s head, “All this hair.” He mused, but drying Shiro’s hair wasn’t the first thing on his mind. In the guise of drying it, he fisted long strands through the towel, tugging back carefully. 

Shiro took half a step back under the unexpected motion, a soft grunt falling from his lips. He nearly dropped the towel he’d forgotten he was holding as Szayel backed him out of the bathroom and towards the bed.

Stooping the few inches of height that separated the two, his lips brushed across his boss’s as he spoke, still directing the way they moved. “I am… relieved, Sir, that you’re alright.” He admitted, “I don’t think the prospect of someone dying has ever bothered me so much as it did when Kurosaki called me.”

The don was momentarily stunned by the confession. Warm hands dropped from his hair, letting the towel slide, and instead settled upon his bare hips as the backs of his legs found the edge of the bed. Then, after that moment of speechlessness, “You’re just glad your job isn’t at risk.”

Szayel chimed a soft laugh, “Yes, that must be it.” When the smaller gingerly lowered himself to sit, looking up at him, he dropped to his knees, feathering his lips across the damaged muscle of Shiro’s abdomen. A hand adding gentle pressure to Shiro’s chest, he instructed, “Lay back, if you would. What kind of doctor would I be if I didn’t look after my patient?”

“Szazy…” The don protested, but allowed himself to be guided flat, to lay upon the bed with his knees bent over the edge and his feet on the floor. “We tried this already.”

“In a much more awkward space,” Szayel countered, hands working up inner thighs. He leaned close to set his teeth gently to pale skin as he reached for the nightstand and the bottle of lube the two kept there. He worked two, slick fingers in, not quite picking up where they left off, “Tell me if it hurts too much.”

An airy, strained sound worked up the don’s throat as his hips tilted, lower spine arching from the bed slightly. He made the effort to get an elbow under him so that he could rise to a less prone position and watch the doctor work, but failed when the movement tightened his chest. “M-movin’ hurts.” He grit out.

A smirk curled pretty features, “Then don’t do it. Just go along for the ride, Shiro.”

“Szazy-“ Whatever protesting he was about to do died as his partner’s hot mouth found his saluting member. His back arched, but even that sent an ache through his ribcage and he hissed a breath as he tried to relax. Surrendering this level of control was foreign to the don, a man used to being in charge and used to directing things. The fingers stretching him open pushed deep slowly, gently almost, but it was enough to light fire under his skin. When those probing fingers found what they searched for, Shiro’s hips bucked and a soft cry escaped him. Szayel hummed an amused sound that verged on haughty, and massaged what he’d found as he worked his tongue and mouth over his boss’s length.

The don slept well that night, in his own bed and worn out in ways that didn’t come from the exhaustion of healing wounds and a battered body. The next morning when he awoke, the day already nearly half through, he gingerly made his way to the kitchen, hungry for the first time in days.


	4. drabble two

I already forgot I was uploading my drabbles here............  
Anyway! No warning apply to this one, unless you're afraid of spiders, I guess.

 

 

–––––––

It was the middle of the day, when high standing men of the mafia slept so that business could be conducted at night, when regular citizens were out of the way. More or less. Dark, heavy curtains blocked out the sun, shading the room in deep shades of grey and black.

Shiro padded across the room half asleep, through the yawning doorway of his adjoined bathroom. The tile was cool below his feet. He got as far as lifting the toilet seat, before movement in the dark caught his eye and he jerked back, scrambling out of the room fast enough to nearly land on his butt. He slammed the door shut behind him to trap the creature in.

Passed out on the bed across the room, Dr. Granz jerked awake with a start as the bang from the door echoed in the room. It didn’t sound unlike a gun and he did work for the mafia, after all. He frantically looked around, half panicking in his struggle to make sense of suddenly being awake, until he saw his boss standing a few feet away from the bathroom door, butt naked.

Shiro rounded on him, pointing back to the bathroom. “Take care of that!” He hissed in the again silent room, a shiver crawling up his spine as he shifted another step from the door. His features were creased with his dislike as he glanced back toward the door with an almost skittish way about him.

Szayel frowned, rubbing the sleep from his features in a hurry. It was hard to imagine that there was anything the boss couldn’t handle on his own and the doctor was fairly certain that anything Shiro didn’t like this much was surely above his pay grade. It wasn’t likely to be a body in the bathroom, after all. Well. Not in _Shiro’s_ bathroom. Anything else should have been Shiro’s or one of his men’s to take care of. “Should I call a plumber, or…?”

“ _Szayel_!” The don urged in a warning tone.

“Ok, alright.” The doctor practically tripped on the sheets tangled around him as he shot to his feet. The don hadn’t called him by his real name since he’d first started under Shiro’s employ, let alone since they’d started sleeping together. He didn’t even like the pet name the boss had so quickly given him and yet it was unnerving to hear his real name come from him. He was pretty sure he’d have a heart attack if his last name came next.

With caution, Szayel joined the man at the bathroom door, studying pale features in the dark for any clue as to what he should expect. All Shiro gave him was a hard glare that kept edging behind him toward the door like a horrendous monster might come rushing out at any minute. Also hard to imagine.

The don sighed unhappily at the hesitation, “Any minute would be great. I still gotta piss.”

“Yes, of course.” Szayel muttered, hand on the doorknob. He took a moment to steel himself, then pushed the door open, mentally preparing for all manner of mafia dealings that could end up in someone’s bathroom. It was a surprisingly long list when he really thought about it.

But he found the room empty.

Szayel frowned, glancing over his shoulder at his boss.

Shiro gave him a look and motioned for him to hurry up, “In the tub.”

“The tub? Sir, there’s nothing-“ But as he walked through the room, a small, dark shape no bigger than a quarter, legs included, scurried across the smooth porcelain basin. It slipped on the side of the tub, trapped. “A spider?” Szayel asked in disbelief, “It’s- Oh my- Holy shit. Are you afra-“ As he spoke, he turned with a wide, amused grin toward the don, only for his words to die in his throat and his features to pale.

Shiro leveled his gun at his lover, a hard, angry scowl on his face. The metal shone in what little light filtered into the bedroom. “You better rethink that question very carefully.”

Without finishing the thought, Szayel turned back to the task at hand and twisted the knob, letting water wash the spider down the drain. “Taken care of.” He announced pointedly.

Shiro eyed him skeptically, but edged into the room -carefully staying behind him, the taller noted- to have a look for himself. “It better not come back up while I’m in the shower later…”

The doctor rolled his eyes, “That’s a myth, it doesn’t actually happen.”

“For your sake, it better not. Now move. What part of _I still gotta piss_ don’t you understand?”

Szayel shook his head slightly, but edged out of the way and left the don to his business. As he climbed back into bed, he frowned, speaking over the sound of Shiro’s peeing. “Were you honestly going to shoot me?” 

“I was honestly thinkin’ about it.” Shiro answered from the bathroom.  


“Who would have killed it for you then?”

Shiro snorted as he flushed, “Do you have any idea how many guys would come runnin’ if a gun went off from inside the mansion at this hour? Take your pick.”

“Kurosaki, probably.”

The don laugh as he walked across the dark room, “Yeah, probably.”

 


	5. drabble three - part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rise of the Son
> 
> This is one that I had grand ambitions of turning into a full oneshot, but it's been sitting around for a while, so I'm just going to toss it in here. As the tentative titles suggests; wee boy Shiro before he became don and took over the family, complete with hints of the crush he used to have on Ichigo when Ichigo had first come to work for his father. There will be at least a second part to this one, maybe more. No real warnings apply other than some hinted at violence you'd expect in a mafia fic.

The boy turned to storm from the room, dismissing his father and all the yelling being aimed at him. If he wasn’t being outright ignored, he was being screamed at and degraded. The older he got, the more common the latter became, and the more he got yelled at, the more he grew to resent his father’s attention. When he was little, all he wanted was that; his father’s attention. He used to follow the man around like a shadow, tug his hand from his pocket to hold like he’d seen other kids doing the few times he’d been taken out. His father had meant the world to him, he’d looked up to him, wanted to be just like him. But those days were long gone.

“Grab him!” The don commanded of one of his guys, and a man posted by the door reached out and snagged the teen by the upper arm, dragging him around like he was little more than that child still. 

“You little shi-“ The man had more than six inches on the kid, but that didn’t stop him from freezing when the metallic click of a gun’s hammer being drawn back sounded in the close air between him and the boy. Cold metal pressed into the soft skin under his chin and he straightened slightly, eyes widening.

Seated at the table beside the don, another young man jerked rigid in his chair, half to his feet when he saw the glint of metal.

Very slowly, the fingers wrapped bruisingly tight around the teen’s arm released their grip. The don’s son smirked a sharp, humorless expression. “You forget I’m the son of a mobster?” He asked mockingly, pressing the gun a little harder as he glared murder into the man’s face, never mind that he looked up to do so. Nothing in the world would have convinced him he was smaller or lesser to anyone around him, it’s just how he was. He could feel as his father’s guy swallowed nervously. His finger hesitated on the trigger a moment longer. “Touch me again, and this room’ll need a new paint job.” With the final warning, he spun and finished storming through the door.

“Zangets–!” The door slammed on his way out, echoing through the hallway. With an exasperated, irritated sigh, the don eased back in his chair. He took a sip of his drink and waved a shooing motion. “I just wanted him to get a haircut.” He said to the young man still half way to his feet beside him. “Go talk to him. He listens to you.”

“He likes his hair like that, sir.”

“And that was fine when he was a child, but it’s unprofessional now.”

The young man’s near permanent frown deepened. “With all due respect, sir, you don’t let him in on your business dealings anyway, what’s it hurt to let him have this?”

The glass was set down with finality that made the table vibrate. “I didn’t ask you for your opinion, Ichigo. Go talk to him.”

Ichigo hesitated a moment, then nodded a shallow but respectful acknowledgment, and pushed the rest of his way to his feet. By the time he rounded the table and made it through the door, into the hallway, the boy was turning the corner into a different wing of the mansion. “Zang! Wait up.” 

The teen paused, then turned on him with a vehement look, but waited as Ichigo caught up. When a hand settled between his shoulder blades, guiding him in a more calm pace to continue down the hall, he followed the suggestion with a scowl on his face.

The look of absolute loathing was still painted on his boss’s son’s pale face. The don may never have raised a hand at his only child, but he was far from the kind, nurturing father he liked to think he was. “Zang, he doesn’t mean-“

A hand snapped up and though it came no where near to touching, let alone striking, Ichigo, it shut him up just as fast. “Don’t make excuses for him!” The younger seethed, rounding on him again, and though Ichigo was older, more experienced, and had the training to back him, the boy’s fury was something to hesitate in the face of. “He’s a piece of shit and you know it! And don’t call me that.”

“Fine. You’re right and I’m sorry.” Ichigo followed at his side as the teen shook his head slightly, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and continued down the hallway again. “If you don’t want to be called your name, what do you want to be called?”

“Not that. It’s his name.” He was still fuming, but it was a quieter anger now, a simmering one that followed every argument the son and father engaged in. And there were plenty.

“You say it like you have something in mind.” Ichigo prompted. A boy though he may have been, the don’s son certainly had all the confidence and leadership of his father. More even. It was easy to stand at his side. The kid was going places, wether the don could see that or not. “Spill it. You can’t lead the family when you’re older if you’re shy.”

The teen snorted. Shy was something he wasn’t. “I wanna go by Shiro.”

Ichigo was quiet a long moment, looking the boy over and studying his features. The connection was obvious, with the younger’s pale complexion and the genetic pigment disorder. The don saw it as a flaw, an embarrassing imperfection in his only child. And now it seemed, despite Ichigo’s efforts in trying to be sure the younger never saw it that way in this passed year he’d known the family, that maybe the future don saw it that way too. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea… Is that really the kind of name you want to make for yourself?” 

The boy shrugged. “Why not? You think I’m bein’ short sighted, but I’m not. I can’t change or hide how I look. My father resents it. His partners, the few that know of me, are intimidated by it. It makes people uneasy. I can either embrace it and everything that comes with it, or I can resent it like my father. I’d rather use it to my advantage. No one’s gonna forget my name.”

“Shiro…” Ichigo thought about it for a few minutes, rolled it around in his mind. He studied the boy from the corner of his eye and eventually nodded. “Alright. I think we can work with that.”

A much more pleased smirk pulled across previously annoyed features. 

They took another turn, down a different hallway, headed for the backyard, where a shooting range had been set up for the don’s men. Ichigo smiled a small, mostly private expression. There was pride in it. “You’re draw is getting pretty damn quick. Even caught me off guard.”

Shiro laughed, smirk stretching to a grin for a moment, before pale brows furrowed. “I’m already a better shot than half a’ my dad’s guys. He’s wastin’ my potential, same way he’s wastin’ yours. An adviser. What a joke.”

“Calling me an advisor simplifies what I do, but I don’t want to kill people for your father.” Ichigo shook his head, but the boy wasn’t wrong. “He’s throwing away his strongest asset and doesn’t even realize it. Zan- Shiro… Your old man’s an asshole, but don’t let him ruin you. You’re well suited to this business. People are going to fear you, and those who don’t are going to follow you.”

“Are you gonna follow me?” Uncanny, gold eyes turned toward the older. 

There was no hesitation to Ichigo’s answer. “Yes.”

“Will you kill people for me?”

Features pinched slightly and this time, Ichigo did hesitate, but it was as much because his first thought was an affirmative as it was because he didn’t want to be the one to pull the trigger. 

The teen seemed to realize the internal conflict and a smirk pulled at his pale features. He absently tucked his hands into his pockets again. “Why’d you decide to get into this line of work, Ichigo? It doesn’t seem quite your type.”

“Honestly?” Ichigo shook his head slightly, glancing over for a brief moment. “I’m not really sure, sometimes. It pays better than the academy did. And while I don’t really want to hurt people, at least the people who get hurt in this business usually deserve it. The police are…” He shook his head in disgust, “They’re exactly what you and your father are, but they hide behind a badge and laws and call it justice. Being a criminal is more honest work.”

Shiro nodded, well pleased with the way this conversation, and especially the turn his mood, had taken since speaking with his father. 

After a few minutes of silence stretched between them, Ichigo spoke up, his tone amused. “I’m supposed to tell you to cut your hair.”

Shiro snorted a laugh. “Not gonna happen.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feel free to comment!


End file.
